


recrudescence

by illumarks



Category: NCT (Band), SM Rookies
Genre: Alternate Universe - Small Town, M/M, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 21:30:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17906015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illumarks/pseuds/illumarks
Summary: recrudescence[n]/ˌrēkro͞oˈdes(ə)ns/— the recurrence of an undesirable condition; revival or reappearance in active existence. in extended use, it most often describes the return of an undesirable condition, such as a war or a plague, or the return of an undesirable idea.





	1. Chapter 1

The day he finds out Taeyong would be arriving, Mark imagines the house is filled with the echoes of where his laughter used to be. 

His mother calls him downstairs, handing him a stiff, cream-colored envelope, a letter nestled inside. He recognizes the seal in front, and when he sees that it’s broken, he knows that she already knows. She tells him just as much, because when he moves to thumb the flap open, she blurts out the news herself. 

“He’s coming back,” his mother says, smiling through the torrent of tears running down her face in rivulets, and when Mark holds her in an embrace, he finds that his shoulders are shaking like hers. “Taeyong is coming home.” It's news they’ve both been waiting for for years now, and yet somehow they were never really prepared to hear it. The utter shock of it, like a punch to the gut, the surprise churning in his belly, is proof enough.

When she goes upstairs where he knows she will be crying into her pillow for the next few hours, Mark walks around the house in some sort of disbelieving daze. For all his years of indifference, suddenly it’s like he can see his brother everywhere — in the loveseat near the window with the seashell chimes tinkling overhead, in the corner of the kitchen where the rice sits cooking, in the front of the large piano with the photos sitting atop the lid. His image is distant and blurry in Mark’s head, distorted as if underwater, and he tries to draw up the way Taeyong used to smile but he finds that he can’t remember it anymore. It was a smile his mother always liked to call a revelation; Taeyong’s true smile, warm and unrestrained, a thing of legend among the rest of the suburban teens and mothers alike, but as hard as he tries to conjure it he comes up blank. Mark’s not surprised. It’s been so long after all.

When Donghyuck comes over on Tuesday, he sits on the kitchen counter despite Mark telling him to get off and sit properly at least three times over the past hour. He chatters as Mark washes the dishes quietly, soap suds gently slushing over the porcelain of his mother’s favorite mug. 

His eyes stray from the utensils when Donghyuck yawns, working the kink in his neck from sitting too long and stretching his wiry arms and legs. Mark watches out of the corner of his eye, hands slowing down to finally still around the sponge, severely distracted by the golden length of thighs exposed in all their sun kissed glory. 

“You look good in shorts,” he says, unbidden, cutting off Donghyuck in the middle of a second yawn. He regrets it instantly, and wished desperately he’d shrink several sizes smaller so he can drown himself under the stream of water from the tap.

“What did you say?” Donghyuck asks mid-stretch, arms suspended over his head, brows drawing together. The tepid heat of the afternoon dots his forehead with beads of sweat.

“I said ... you look good in shorts.” The spoon in his hand is suddenly looking very interesting, and Mark scrubs over the surface again despite already having rinsed it twice in the last minute. He tries to redeem himself. “Plus it’s really hot outside and I heard that Changmin from the swim team got a heatstroke and —“

“Shut up, Mark.” 

Donghyuck is grinning at him, the tips of his ears turning the loveliest shade of pink. He inspects the legs in question, and then turns to look up at Mark through his impossibly long lashes, eyes scorching. “If you weren’t washing the dishes, I’d be kissing the life out of you right now.”

The dishes have never been washed so fast.

That’s how they end up tumbling into Mark’s bed, the younger laid out under him and Mark braced above him. It’s a position they’ve been finding themselves a lot in lately. The soft glow of the sun through the curtains illuminates the rise and fall of Donghyuck’s chest under Mark’s slightly trembling, inquiring hands. His bright hair is spread out around him like a halo, eyes squeezed shut, out of breath and looking so dazed it makes Mark’s heart thump unevenly inside his chest. His holds himself up on one elbow, head craned upwards to reach Mark, his blessedly warm, wet tongue tracing a line of fire from Mark’s collar and up his throat and it’s all he can do to keep a groan from spilling out of his mouth. 

One of his hands finds its way to Donghyuck’s cheek, tracing the line of his narrow waist. Donghyuck reaches up, wrapping his arms around Mark’s neck, one hand moving to curl into his nape. Mark lets out an embarrassingly wild gasp, eyes flying open as Donghyuck grabs a fistful of his hair, fingers twisting around the roots.

Later, when they grow tired of kissing, they exchange a last one, gentle and close mouthed, barely a kiss at all. Mark retrieves Donghyuck’s discarded shirt lying on the floor like washed up twigs on a riverbank, and hands it back. He waits until the younger puts it on before he pulls Donghyuck down, head pillowed on his chest, legs tangling together. They're both flushed, Donghyuck's cheeks a shade of red he had never seen anywhere before. The other boy traces patterns into the sliver of exposed skin on Mark’s stomach beneath the hem of his shirt. Sleep slowly starts to overtake him, his mind a wonderful blurry haze before he remembers with a quiet jolt.

“Taeyong’s coming home,” he murmurs quietly into Donghyuck’s hair. He hears the sudden intake of breath and the silence that follows. The hand on his stomach stills. 

“Oh, Mark,” the other replies, eyes sad and full of concern, voice so tender it makes a lump form in his throat. Donghyuck sits up, twisting to look down at him. He cradles Mark’s face between his hands, caressing his hair back over his forehead. Tears prick at the corner of Donghyuck’s eyes, and Mark reaches up to take the hand holding his face, rubbing over it comfortingly. He lowers the same hand to his mouth and starts leaving slow kisses on the lines criss-crossing across the palm.

Donghyuck isn’t so easily distracted. He pulls up Mark’s face by the chin to see his expression. “Are you okay?” he asks, hesitant, fingers warm on his chin.

“I’m fine,” Mark answers automatically, although he doesn’t know how true the statement is. The younger combs the tips of his fingers through Mark’s head towards his nape and tingles bloom across his scalp in answer. “Mom is sad and distracted, but I don’t know what to say to her. Today after breakfast, she went straight upstairs.” 

“That’s why the dishes were unwashed.” Mark only hums in response, already losing the conversation, distracted by Donghyuck’s fingers on his head. His eyelids start to get heavier.

He mourns the lack of space between them, so he opens his arms and he feels rather than sees the other boy slump back into his waiting hands, nuzzling into his chest. The fragrance of his hair is clear and pleasant in Mark’s nose. He hums in satisfaction.

“Hmmm. I’ll go check on her before I go. Maybe she’ll talk to me,” he hears Donghyuck say as if from a great distance away, and he’s not sure if it’s real or a dream because he’s slipping so far into unconsciousness. He wants to say _yes, you should_ , because his mother adores Donghyuck more than anyone and he was better at emotions than Mark could ever dream of being. He tries to agree but he doesn’t know if it actually comes out of his mouth, because the only thing he knows is the comforting darkness of sleep.

They’re sitting on the porch a week later when one of their neighbors come by. Donghyuck is listing songs for a summer playlist he wanted to make, but Mark is only half paying attention as he watches an ant make its way up Donghyuck's thigh, thinking of how slowly he could brush it off before Donghyuck would catch on. A shadow blocks the sun. He looks up and it's a girl from school, one Mark can’t remember the name of, although they’ve lived in the same suburb their entire lives. 

“We just heard the news, and mom wanted me to give this to you,” the girl skips over, sweat glistening on her forehead. She hands over the foil wrapped package and it’s warm, the fourth tupperware of food they’ve received this week. Mark begins to hate all that the reheatable dishes entail – that they pity him, which annoys him, and that they know his mother isn’t well, which annoys him even more. What right do they have to know any of their business? He unbuttons the last two buttons of his shirt, feeling too hot. “Enjoy the food,” girl from next door continues. “Dad says to tell you we’re glad your brother’s coming home, but we’re also really sorry for everything.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault he left.” It comes out gruff and unfriendly, and Donghyuck stiffens by his side.

“Oh,” the girl – Yerim, he remembers now –just scratches her head. “Okay. Well, I guess I’ll go ahead. Oh, and by the way, you two are so cute together,” she adds, smiling at him and Donghyuck in turn. Donghyuck gives her a small smile in return and she perks up. “I always see you at the cafeteria and I think you two make a ridiculously attractive couple,” she gushes. 

“We’re not a couple,” Mark cuts her off before she can say any more. He doesn’t know what makes him say it and he feels like every inch the coward he is, but the smile falls from her face and the air turns sour, awkwardness mingling with the heat waves rising off the pavement. She gives them a small bow before turning to leave. 

It’s always been easy with Donghyuck. It’s almost painfully clichè, the way they’ve known each other their entire lives, grown up together attached at the hip, known each other inside and out, and over the course of the past year it’d seemed perfectly natural for their friendship to gradually blossom into something not quite platonic. It grew with a quiet, steady intensity that Mark didn’t even have to make the conscious effort to figure out or to act on. It felt inevitable, like fate was falling into place. 

The transition had mystified Mark, how they went from being best friends, arms around each other and having a good time, to having eye contact for just a tad bit too long and then it’s blurring all the boundaries. One second they’re doing homework together, the next thing he knows he’s staring too much, entranced by the way the long line of the younger’s throat moved when he spoke. And the strangest thing was that Donghyuck always stared right back. Over time the stolen looks turned into something else completely. _He’s kind of beautiful_ , he used to think stupidly, every time Donghyuck did something completely mundane like say his name or laugh at one of his stupid jokes. It made his chest hurt.

And then one day they finally drop Jisung off at his house and it’s just the two of them left, like it is every week, but out of nowhere he had begun to note the unconscious grace with which Donghyuck carried himself, the tension in the air between them. And Mark knew he felt it too when the other boy grabbed his hand, tangled their fingers together and he couldn’t let go, he didn’t want to. And whenever he thinks back he still can’t figure out how they were suddenly upstairs in his bedroom and Donghyuck asking for a kiss, just to try, he had said, just one and Mark couldn’t say no, not when he was already leaning in, not when he wanted it, too, and then they were kissing and Donghyuck’s hands had snuck under his shirt and Mark just let him, and then one kiss turned into one too many until it became a regular thing, like their daily walks home or their Saturdays at the ice cream shop. It was easy and natural, like everything else with Donghyuck, but this week it’s been anything but. Today is no exception. 

He feels the tension, palpable as he walks into the kitchen, depositing the container on the counter to cool. He turns around and sits down and finds that Donghyuck is already facing him. 

“Why did you say that?” he chides gently, and Mark knows he’s talking about his less than gracious response to Yerim.

“Because it’s true,” he huffs, irritant. He feels the heat surging through his temples and he doesn’t know why he’s mad, but he is. “Why would they be sorry for something they didn’t do?”

Donghyuck crosses his arms across his chest like he’s bracing himself. “You know she was just trying to be nice. You didn’t even thank her for the food.”

“Well, maybe I don’t want the food. And she doesn’t have to be nice to me, like everyone’s been doing lately. I don’t need to be coddled like I’m some child, you know,” he says, accusation lacing his voice, because if anyone’s been coddling him the most, it’s Donghyuck. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Mark, why do you keep saying that?” It’s said with a mix of concern and bewilderment and he despises the look in his eye. The same expression everyone looks at him with these days. Compassion. Pity. Like there’s something wrong with him. It’s why he’s hated looking into any of their faces lately, all of them, pity always welling in their eyes. 

“Because it’s true. Why won’t any of you believe that I’m okay? It’s my mom that’s all messed up, not me. I barely even remember Taeyong,” he insists.

“That’s not true,” Donghyuck whispers, shaking his head, the quiet alarm visible on his face. “Why do you keep saying that? Why do you keep acting like you don’t remember him? I remember Taeyong, Mark. That one time he took us to the park to build a snowman, remember?” His eyes are wide and insistent, begging Mark to remember. “Or when he dug a grave for my pet hamster because we were both crying so hard, and we had a little funeral in our backyard and he even said a real prayer because we didn’t know any, and that one time when he built us a fort made of blankets in your living room? And he dressed up just for us and played the princess because we both wanted to be knights.”

And there they are. The memories he’s kept locked away for so long, memories he wants nothing more than to never bring back. It splits him open, leaves him bare and laid out for the whole world to see when the last thing he wants is to be seen. Like he’s some animal at a zoo, something to gawk at, something to analyze, constantly being asked how he’s feeling, like he’s supposed to know the answer.

“We were kids, Donghyuck. And it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s coming back now, we’re all happy. It’s what we always wanted. Why are you asking me all of this?”

“No one’s happy about this, Mark. I didn’t say that. I just want you to talk to me,” he replies desperately. “You haven’t been okay all week and it kills me to see you like this.”

“Is this because of what I said about us not being a couple?” he asks, hating himself with every word. He sees the hurt flash in Donghyuck’s eyes, but as horrified as he is he can’t seem to make himself stop. “Because it’s true. We’re not,” he spits out. 

Donghyuck shakes his head and there are tears in his eyes, but his face is a mask of calm as he takes a deep breath. “It’s not about that. I know all too well what we are and what we’re not, but I can’t believe I actually deluded myself into thinking you actually valued me enough in some way to actually listen to me,” he says, voice so cold it makes him shiver. He pushes past Mark into the hallway before he changes his mind and turns back, hesitating under the entryway. 

“I know you’re hurting, Mark,” and Mark is about to deny it but Donghyuck doesn’t let him. “You _are_ , stop denying it. Anyone can see that. And it’s fine. If I were in your shoes I’d be fucking devastated, too. But I can’t put up with you if you’re like this,” he says fiercely. He wipes away his tears. “You’ve been so cold and so mean to me and everyone else, I don’t know why I even bother. I want to be here for you, but you won’t even let me.” 

“So what are you saying? That you’re sick of me? That you want to stop this? That you want out?”

“What is this, Mark? Tell me first what _this_ means. I want _out_? Then tell me, are we even _in_ anything at all?” and when he doesn’t answer Donghyuck gives him a look so full of bitterness it goes down like poison in Mark’s throat.

“That’s what I thought,” he says coolly, walking out without another word.


	2. Chapter 2

That night, in the evasive space between sleep and wakefulness, he dreams of Taeyong, and his voice is clear as daylight. 

Mark wakes up, at least he thinks he does, and he sees the faint glow of the stick-on stars on his ceiling. They seem distant, removed from him. After a while it begins to hurt to look at them, so he closes his eyes. Now he’s dreaming again and there are no images this time, just darkness and swirling fog and the same voice, calling to him. At one point he feels someone shake his shoulder, calling his name, but it’s still in Taeyong’s voice and it makes his blood run cold. He is vaguely aware that it might be his mother’s silhouette at the door, but he’s too tired to respond and when she leaves, he stays in bed. He makes a home out of the bedding, under the comforting weight of his duvet. He feels a strong affection for the dark wood of the bed frame. He never wants to leave.

And when he wakes up the next day, the full force of his sadness takes him by surprise it physically keeps him from getting out of bed. 

It really shouldn’t come as a shock, because it had been building steadily all week, since he got the news, maybe ever since Taeyong had walked out the door and out of his life years ago. He had felt it, building inside for years and now it’s breaking out of him, annihilating him piece by piece. It’s hard to breathe. It’s been a long time coming and Donghyuck looking at him with disgust in his eyes is the last straw, the final cut and now he’s falling over like a felled tree, hurtling towards the ground, unable to stop. He lies there staring at the ceiling feeling the emptiness in his chest spreading through his whole body. 

_You don’t care_ , he says, trying to convince himself, to make it true. _It was a long time ago_ , and _it doesn’t matter_ and _you don’t care_ and _you’re fine_ , he repeats, over and over again. He chants it in his head like a mantra and he doesn’t know how long he stays in bed and how it happens but suddenly it’s Taeyong’s name he’s chanting. _Taeyong, Taeyong, Taeyong_. He repeats his name over and over and over he misses the continued knocking on his door.

“Mark?” Jeno’s voice speaks from the other side of the door. “I’m coming in, okay?” Suddenly the door is flying open and Jeno is striding towards his bed, asking him if he’s okay.

“Mark?” he repeats. “Can you hear me?” He tries to summon his strength and manages a weak nod because Jeno looks so frightened, eyes tight as he gently helps sit him up.

“Did Donghyuck call you?” His voice comes out in a croak, hoarse from hours of misuse, but the hopeful note in it is evident even to him.

“No,” Jeno shakes his head sadly. “Your mom did. She said she tried to wake you up yesterday and you were awake but you didn’t wanna move. She said she thought maybe you were sick,” Jeno’s voice is gentle, and it’s a voice he remembers from his childhood because Jeno’s been there for as long as he can remember, a rock, holding all of them up.

“Yesterday?” He doesn’t know what time it is and he doesn’t remember his mom coming in to check on him. All he can recall is a hazy blur of dreams, so many dreams, a piercing pain in his chest that refused to go away, waking up and going back to sleep again.

“She was needed at work, Mark, so she asked me to come by because Donghyuck hasn’t been picking up her calls. Can you get up? Can you do that for me?” He clutches Mark’s shoulder, looking impossibly frightened. He had never seen that look on Jeno’s face before.

“Jeno, it’s okay. He doesn’t have to get up,” Jaemin is saying from the doorway, head poking in tentatively. Mark doesn’t even know when he arrived, but Renjun is there too. 

“Jaemin, he hasn’t eaten since the other day,” he hears Renjun say, frustrated. “Look at him.”

“You don’t have to force him! Can’t you see the state he’s in?” They’re talking over each other in heated whispers and as Mark listens he suddenly hates what he’s done to his friends. He wants to tell them to stop but Jeno is already there and he draws closer, kneels on the bed right next to him and hiding the other two from view.

“Do you wanna get up?” he whispers so gently, Mark can’t bear to say no. “I can’t cook but we can go to the convenience store and get you something and maybe we can drive down the beach and we can talk, if you want, or we can not talk. Or we can go anywhere else, or we can stay here. Whatever you want, Mark.” 

He’s tired, he’s so tired and he doesn’t know what he wants, he never has, so he shakes his head. He hears Jeno sigh and it’s heavy with sadness, but he doesn’t say anything more. 

They help him up, waiting as he showers and gets dressed, and it’s good, mechanical and routine and did not require too much thinking. He stays under the stream of water, relishing the heat that makes his skin red and raw because it distracts him from his thoughts. They go outside to where Jeno’s car is waiting and he’s surprised at the orange purple canvas the sky has become, almost night time. 

When they get to the grocery store he takes comfort in roaming the aisles because this, too, didn’t require too much thinking. It’s silent in the car and he doesn’t realize until they reach Donghyuck’s house that he hasn’t said a word the whole time. He’s afraid to speak because he’s scared he doesn’t know what to say to them anymore. 

Jaemin lowers the window and sticks his head out. “Donghyuck! We’re going to the beach in five minutes, get your perfect ass out here!” he yells.

Jisung turns around from the front seat when Donghyuck climbs in without a word. The boy stares shrewdly at him, and then at Mark, before he asks, “You two aren’t talking, are you?” His eyes narrow, scrutinizing.

Donghyuck looks like he wants to choke the life out of Jisung or say something mean, but Chenle, squeezed in the passenger’s seat with the youngest, beats him to it. “Of course they’re not, they’re too busy sucking each other’s souls out of their mouths half the time they’re together” and while Renjun looks scandalized, all of them are suddenly killing themselves laughing. 

It almost feels normal, inside Jeno’s car with the sunset beating down in a blaze of light the color of spun gold. In spite of everything, it makes Mark smile. Donghyuck, on the other hand, only stares out the window like the highway is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. None of them notice and soon enough they arrive, kicking up a whirlwind of sand. Chenle flies out of the passenger’s seat and goes bounding into the ocean, high shrieking laughter piercing the salt laden air.

“Chenle, shut up! You’re gonna get us arrested!”

“Jisung says my laugh is nice,” the younger pouts, sticking his tongue out at Renjun. Renjun turns to aim a loaded stare at Jisung but the younger quickly backs away, blushing.

Later, they sit drying on the hood of Jeno’s car, talking, until the shadow of the trees starts to lengthen, further darkening the beach. A crescent moon begins to rise steadily, white and clear in the black night, and a breeze rustles the fronds of the palm trees. Gin and rum and chips sit in their stomachs, unrealized grief turning like a knife in Mark’s, singing songs out of tune, bound together by more than just friendship. 

“Do you know where you’re all going after we’re done with school?” Renjun asks absently, breaking the comfortable silence.

“I haven’t thought that far ahead yet,” Jeno replies, flicking drops of water out of his bangs. “Graduation is still a few years away. Why don’t we ask the senior?” he turns to Mark, smiling encouragingly.

He’s not sure what to say. “I don’t know. I think I’d like to see the world …” his voice trails off. He looks around for help.

“I’m doing that too,” Jisung offers, surety lacing through every word. “I’ll go and see the world, because then that’s the only way I’ll realize how great this town actually is compared to everywhere else. And then I’ll come back.” His voice rings with certainty, and Mark thinks despite being the youngest maybe Jisung is the wisest out of all of them, in his own quiet way. 

“He’s right,” Mark says, and Jisung beams at him, pleased. “This place is home. I’ll always find my way back here.” 

Everyone nods in agreement, secure in the certainty that they will always have a home, in their town and in their friends, to come back to. They’ll come back.

When the night grows deeper, the breeze becomes stronger and they all start to shiver. Jaemin quickly builds a fire the way he learned it in the boy scouts last summer, and Renjun claps in delight when the wood starts to burn. Jaemin dusts his hands of ash and and moves to sit on a flat rock near the beach and they follow after him, the ocean heaving before them as they sit side by side in the blue night. For a second, just a second, they’re all synchronized in the perfect contentment of the shared moment. 

To Mark, in that exact moment, his desolation seemed impossible and faraway. He was conscious of the blood flowing in his veins, the fullness of life, and he felt like he finally existed in the present – outside of his bedroom, in spite of the gaping hole Taeyong’s absence had left in his life – he existed. Tonight, that was enough. 

As he rolls up a trouser leg to dip his foot in the cold water he’s suddenly overcome with a deep affection for his friends on this warm night, a rush of gratitude so sweet it made his throat ache, and he works up his nerve to tell them exactly this. They all nod in reply, none of them saying anything, but none of them needed to, because the mere fact that they were there with him in that moment was all Mark really needed. Jisung gives him a pat on the back, and Donghyuck puts his arm around Mark’s shoulder gently, the weight of it wonderful and unbearable at the same time. He tries to appear relaxed and at ease, but he was neither; he did not dare move for fear that the Donghyuck would remove his arm.

By the end of the night it’s only Chenle who’s keeping the stream of conversation going. They’re all pleasantly drowsy from the food and drink. Donghyuck sits with his hands folded in his lap, looking out at the crashing waves in the distance: sandbars and big misshapen rock formations monstrous by starlight. Mark sits next to him, playing with the fraying edges of Donghyuck’s jacket. 

“Talk to me, please.” Donghyuck pleads, voice low and quiet, a voice meant only for Mark to hear. Mark tries to open his mouth, tries to get the words flowing as easily as it used to be between them, but he remembers the look in Jeno’s eyes this afternoon, the one mirroring Jaemin’s and Renjun’s. The look _he_ put there. The look of fear. And if he sees that look in Donghyuck’s eyes too, it might break him so bad he’d never recover from it. 

When he shakes his head, Donghyuck stills, looking away from him and out towards the ocean. Mark feels as if he’s pulling away even though the physical proximity between them stays the same. The magic of the moment dissipates, and they don’t speak for the rest of the night.

Jeno tries to hide his yawns as he gets up to skip rocks. Renjun drinks more gin and Jisung drinks in Chenle’s words as they continue to talk. 

A few hours after midnight they finally head home and Jeno drops them off one by one. Donghyuck goes first, stumbling out of the car in a drowsy stupor. Mark is seized by the urge to stop him, to say something, to follow after him, but before he can make up his mind Donghyuck is already slamming the car door behind him. Mark raises his hand in a wave goodbye but it’s a beat too late, Donghyuck’s back already turned as he trudges up their porch steps. With a quiet sigh he lets his hand fall like a deflated balloon, feeling resigned.

They drop everyone along the way until it’s just him and Jeno, lingering idly outside Mark’s house. 

“Jeno...”

Jeno only shakes his head, already knowing what Mark was going to say. “You know we’ll do anything for you.”

He’s about to open the door when Jeno clears his throat. “There’s just one thing I wanna say,“ and Mark can feel an excuse forming in his mouth but Jeno cuts his off, “and I know you’d rather not talk about this, what with everything else going on, but I feel like I need to. You don’t have to say anything, I just need to get this out there. I’ll do all the talking and you can just listen okay?”

Jeno regards him closely in the low light. His eyes are devoid of their usual warmth, the one everyone falls for, and instead it is filled with barely concealed worry. “Donghyuck is not really the type to share his … feelings, we all know that. He wears most of his emotions on his sleeve, but the ones beneath the surface, he tends to keep them to himself. You know this better than anyone else.”

“But, Mark, by some miracle you seem to be the exception to that. The rest of us know he probably tells you everything, and that’s good, and we don’t hold it against you, because it’s lucky that he has someone to confide in. Healthy. But the thing is, when you’re wide open and vulnerable like that, it hurts, when you’re left hanging. It sucks, Mark.”

Mark opens his mouth to protest, but he decides against it and let’s Jeno finish. The younger is direct and ruthless, like a surgeon making the first cut in flesh. “What you’re going through, it’s not easy. But maybe it’s just as hard on his end, too, you know?”

“You are two of the most important people in my life, and maybe we’re young and have so many more people to meet, but it doesn’t take a genius to see that what you two have is special, Mark. It’s rare, and I don’t want you to lose that.”

They’re both silent for a while, but then Jeno’s perfect lips turn up mischievously. “When I say what you two have is too special to lose, I just don’t mean emotionally, I meant … physically, too.” It’s something they don’t talk about, not even between him and Donghyuck, and Mark is mortified.

“It’s not like that.”

Jeno grins wickedly. “Ah, come on, Mark, you don’t see what we see. It’s like all anyone needs to do is strike a match and you two would light up in flames. It’s intense.” His usual smile is back, eyes twinkling. 

Before Mark can protest, Jeno pushes him out the door and gives him a little wave. It was time for him to go. He alights onto the brick lined pavement of the sidewalk and watches as the car slowly disappears into the darkness.

A brisk south wind from the mountainous side of town stirs the sunflower stems in their garden, slapping them against the gritty surface of the sunburned walls of their kitchen. He takes a deep breath. He is suddenly overcome with guilt, feeling chilly as he stops and mulls over Jeno’s words. He feels fatigue creep over him. His friends and the comfort of their company had kept his exhaustion at bay, but now it returned – and with it, the echoing feeling of immense loneliness.

As he walks through the half-light, past their silent lawn covered in thin mist, he notes the sliver of blue electronic glow that escapes beneath the latticed windows of the living room. The muffled sounds signal the start of his mother’s favorite late night game show. And it’s a great relief, somehow, to see these signs of life, to think of his mother illuminated in the refrigerator light to get a glass of water, her head turning briefly to the window and the darkness beyond as she pads back to the living room to await his return. 

The only sound is the crunch of his shoes on the gravel path, nothing else apart from his soft footfalls. No rustle coming from the trees, no birds against the night sky, the rest of the world sharing his thoughtful silence.


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of the days grow longer, the sun staying close beneath the horizon. Mark remains restless, his feeling of longing transforming into a twisted sort of apprehension like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly inside its cocoon. He spends his days turning the pages of the photo album his mother keeps under her bed when she leaves for work, and he wonders whether Taeyong ever thought of him after he left. He flips to a photo of Taeyong at sixteen, and it’s hard not to stare at the odd, elegant lines on his face. Even in his early teens, Taeyong looked strong and different, not quite of this world. The more he stares the farther away he seems to be, the more he looks like a complete stranger to Mark.

He waits and he waits until the day finally comes, the morning sun searing and bright and early, so unlike the storm raging inside him. In contrast the air is cool, the day tinted with warm hues. His mother looks helplessly small in her black dress as she knots the tie around his neck. He smooths the front of his crisp black suit, walks forward to shake the hands of all the other military officials, his brother’s former superiors, faces gaunt and brows shining white as snow capped mountains. 

When it arrives he stares at the narrow length of the coffin his brother lies in; bright wood polish, shiny, almost regal, its surface reveling in the sweet clarity of the funeral home’s fluorescent light. The Korean flag is draped gently over it, and the line of men in fatigues salute as one, giving Taeyong one last farewell in behalf of the state and the people of the republic. _Thank you for your service_ , they say. Unlike his mother, not single one of the old men weep, and Mark silently wonders how many times they’ve done this before —how many boys, men, sons, husbands, lovers, lifeless bodies and caskets have they sent home, back into the waiting arms of families that will never be whole again? He wants to ask them, how many of us have you met? How many weeping mothers who cry into their son’s ratty old t-shirt on rainy July nights? How many desolate younger brothers who fuck up all their relationships because their grief overtakes their lives? He wants to grab them by their collars, to shake them and to ask _how do you fix this? how do you make it stop hurting?_ because he desperately needs to know.

He looks at each of them in turn, wondering whether any of them had actually known Taeyong, or if one of them had made the phone call all those years ago. Mark had been thirteen at that time and Taeyong had only been in the service for a little over two years. He remembers his mother helping him with homework in the kitchen when the insistent ringing of the landline had broken their peaceful concentration. He can still vaguely recall the way she had gone pale, the way her knuckles had tightened over the spiraled wire. But the one thing he had never been able to banish from his memory were the words she had whispered into the receiver. He had managed to repress most of his memories of Taeyong, but his mother’s words from the night he died continued to plague Mark into his adulthood. 

“What do you mean there’s no body?” she had whispered, horrified. By the end of the call she was pale and visibly shaking as she clutched the landline, but Mark vividly remembers the conviction with which she uttered her next words.

“Sir, I have another son, and Taeyong is his hero. He means everything to him. There has to be a body. If my little boy finds out, it’s gonna break him. I can’t do that to Mark, I can’t. You have to find his body. You have to bring Taeyong back to us,” she had pleaded. 

It had made his blood run cold, those words, because it was then that Mark knew for certain. His nightmares finally found its way out of his head, had bled out into the real world. It marked the day his life changed, the day his mother started wearing grief like a second skin, the day the darkness made a permanent home in his chest and never went away. 

And now, years later, after almost a decade of digging, the government had finally stumbled across the bones of a lone soldier in the woods of Kaesong, the steel of his military tag dented but the stamps still readable – a branch, a service number and a name: _Lee Taeyong_.

After the funeral they head back home. As Mark and his mother step out of the car, she draws him closer and clings to him, holding him tight, saying nothing, just holding him. She doesn’t cry, but releases a shuddering breath, an exhalation of a woman who has faced unbearable pain. Any words that cross his mind seems inadequate, so they stand in silence, two people with a common memory. They hold each other and pray that the worst is over.

As they walk inside, Mark looks around their living room and is surprised to see that nothing has changed. In his childhood their home used to be a beautiful place; lovingly decorated with expensive pieces of carefully picked out furniture. But more than that it had been a bustling, bright place, always filled with a steady stream of guests, mostly Taeyong’s. Over the years it had retained its beauty, but without Taeyong and his hoard of friends it had lost it’s sunshine and took on this sort of melancholy beauty – an echo of a once happier place. After the funeral, Mark harbored some misguided hope that maybe it would be transformed back into the sunny place he distinctly remembered it to be, but it still looked the same.

He hears a honk outside and sees his friends parked in the driveway. They’re still in their black suits, and Jaemin has the window rolled down, a question in his eyes. Mark nods, tells them to wait and goes upstairs to say goodbye but instead of being in her room, he finds his mother in Taeyong’s bedroom folding clothes into a box. More boxes are scattered on the floor, already filled with the rest of his things. When she hears him come in, she smiles. “It’s time, don’t you think?” He nods. He tells her he’s going to the pub downtown and she opts to stay home, choosing to remember Taeyong in her own quiet way. He presses a kiss to her cheek and runs outside, climbing into the back of Jeno’s car, squished between a bickering Jisung and Renjun, and directs him to their local pub. 

“It’s gonna take a lot of alcohol to numb the ache in my chest,” he tries to joke, but it comes out more serious than he originally intended. Renjun and Jisung instantly quiet down, while Donghyuck makes a small noise in the passenger's seat.

To Mark’s surprise everyone is there, every nook and cranny filled with people. The whole place is full to bursting, as if the whole town decided to turn up. He hears Taeyong’s name in every corner, but this time it’s not in one of his messed up hallucinations. The high school kids whisper Taeyong’s name with reverence, the old ladies full of fondness and love, the man from the market stall’s voice ringing with respect. All of them speak in hushed whispers the way people speak about the dead.

But it’s a group of strangers in the middle of the room that Mark is drawn to the most. He tries to remember whether they were in the funeral, but the whole day had been a blur. When he walks in they catch his eye and beckon him over. They shake his hand and make him sit, introducing themselves as Taeyong’s section in the military. They look young, but their faces are lined and their eyes dark with some unknown grief. Mark knows that look all too well. 

They tell Mark about Taeyong, but unlike the locals, they don’t whisper his name. To them, Taeyong wasn’t just some half forgotten urban legend or a far off memory. As the night grew deeper the conversation inevitably turned to exchanges of tales about the time they spent serving together. There's a lot of reminiscing and laughter and inside jokes as they recount stories, so many stories. They say Taeyong’s name out loud, with joy and grief and love, so much love, so clear behind the words they speak. And that night, Mark finally gets to know Taeyong as a man, as a friend, as a soldier. 

“He helped this lady give birth, remember?” the guy who had introduced himself as Jaehyun recounts, and the rest of them nod in recollection. “He was always good with his hands, and there were no more doctors in the village so Taeyong went and did it all by himself. When the lady asked him to name the baby girl he called her _Byeol_ , a star, for her wide shining eyes,” he turns to Mark, “and also because his baby brother back home loved stars, he said.”

Mark thinks back to his room, ceiling plastered with so many luminous stars that glowed bright and haunting in the darkness. They’d been there for as long as he could remember, and they called to him, those stars. On bad days he’d count them one by one and a sense of peace would settle over him, and now he knows for a fact that Taeyong put them there just for him. He says none of this, keeps quiet and nods, ignoring the telltale tightness in his throat. One of the men, Taeil, claps a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. 

“Taeyong was an angel, but for some weird reason the one thing guaranteed to piss him off was being talked over.” Laughter erupts at this, and when it ceases, Doyoung continues. “I always did it just to piss him off, you know? And he’d bitch about it for hours. _I deserve a bit of respect, Doyoung!_ ” Doyoung’s smile is wide and gummy, but Mark would be lying if he said Doyoung didn’t scare him a little. 

“He was so uptight during training and in those first few weeks,” the one named Yuta tells Mark. “He didn’t like to express his affection because he felt like he needed to be this strong, stoic, perfect commander who could never show weakness. Took some time and a lot of whining from Sicheng, but by the end of our third month together we’d broken him in,” more cheers and laughter from the others, “and he was returning our hugs, even letting Jungwoo crawl into his tent to cuddle him at night.” With this he winks at the man in question, and Jungwoo chuckles at the memory. 

“He sneaked a kiss on my birthday, remember? Woke me up in the asscrack of dawn and slobbered all over my cheek,” Taeil says with a laugh. “Taeyong wanted to be all cold and strict, wanted to live up to people’s expectations, but he was really just a gentle soul. No uniform or badge could have changed that.” His voice becomes quiet as his eyes lose focus, far away and remembering. “He was the probably kindest man I’ve ever had the good fortune of meeting.”

The locals, on the other hand were determined not to be one-upped, contributing their share of stories as well. Mark listens with wide eyes, some of them he already knew by heart, others novel and brand new, and he can feel the abject fascination showing on his face. 

Mrs. Park from down the street tells them about Taeyong walking past their house on his way to school everyday with a wave for her and a smile for her daughter, Sooyoung, who always blushed but never waved back. Sooyoung, somewhere in the crowd, blushing still, rolls her eyes and tells them about the time Taeyong took her to prom because her date had ditched her, and how it went on to become the best night of her life. Minseok, voice lowered for dramatic effect, tells them about the time he had chased after Taeyong with his walking stick after he caught him stealing tangerines from his backyard, and everyone kills themselves laughing because no one’s ever heard this one before. And then there’s Jonghyun, Taeyong’s high school best friend, wiping glasses behind the bar, who tells them about the time they almost got expelled for breaking into the school radio room to freestyle verses about Assistant Principal Kim’s unusually shaped nose. Donghyuck also speaks up, animated in his retelling of Taeyong dressing up in his mom’s hot pink dress, yellow towel wound around his head to play princess for him and Mark and it’s so ridiculous, Baekhyun ends up on the floor doubled over in laughter. Even shy and quiet Seohyun, prompted by numerous encouraging nods, timidly speaks up about Taeyong who climbed up the cherry tree beside the bus stop to retrieve her cat, even though he was younger than her and afraid of heights and had cried on the entire journey up the tree and back down, but doing it all the same because she had begged him to.

After four more rounds of drinks, their words start to slur, and Mark has to strain to understand what they’re saying.

“You don’t understand, Mark.” The floor is handed back to his brother’s men again. “We’d never leave any of our own behind, never. Especially not our leader. Not Taeyong. He loved us so fiercely.” Doyoung’s voice falters and it baffles Mark how these grown men are openly crying, but he can hardly judge them when his tears flow just as freely. 

“Any one of us would have gladly taken his place, you know? We’d all die for Taeyong, but he’d kill us himself if we tried. We were running out of ammunition and the enemy line just kept advancing, it was a lost cause from the start. We begged him to come with us, but he told us to go ahead, that he’d cover us, that he’d be fine and that he’d meet us at our camp near the river. And we waited for days, we waited as long as we could. By the eighth day, we were out of rations but we’d never leave without our Taeyong,” Doyoung’s voice breaks, hoarse and barely above a whisper. He grips the soju bottle like a lifeline, like it was the only thing that was keeping him from falling apart. The pub is eerily quiet now, everyone rapt with attention as they listen, and Mark catches sight of Donghyuck next to Jaemin near the counter, their eyes shining with tears. “In the end, a squadron from the same platoon we were in came to get us. We went back to find Taeyong, but he wasn’t there anymore. We had to drag Youngho kicking and screaming back to the barracks because he refused to leave, but he had a gunshot wound that was getting worse and he was running the highest fever. We were afraid he’d die, and Taeyong would never forgive us if we let anything happen to Youngho. The medics told us if we had arrived a day later the infection would have spread to his entire leg and they would have had to cut it off.” 

“After we were discharged, I told myself I’ll never forgive myself for leaving him,” Hansol adds. “I beat myself up about it for years. Taeyong will never get married because we left him behind, so why should I have the same privilege?The guilt almost killed me. Sometimes I still feel it. But you heal, with time. And you grow up. You learn to accept that there are things outside of your control, and from there you learn to forgive yourself.” 

“In war, sacrifices can't be avoided, and Taeyong made his choice, for the greater good,” Yuta looked gutted, but his voice is steady as a rock, and the pride in his voice is unmistakable. “For as long as I live, I’ll never forget him.”

He raises his glass over his head, and in that moment it’s like time bends, curls around them lovingly, and Mark can feel Taeyong’s presence right there in the room with them, so strong, like if he turns around he’ll see him there in the corner, holding up a glass and smiling at all these people whose lives he had touched. And Mark thinks that Taeyong might be gone, but not in this room full of people in whose memories he will always live on, eternally preserved in his twenty year old body, handsome face and strong jaw, kind eyes and even kinder words. Neighbor and friend. Soldier, sergeant, first lieutenant. War hero. Son and brother.

“To Lee Taeyong,” Yuta says with reverence, voice thick with emotion, and a room full of people echo it back. _To Lee Taeyong._

Over the sound of glasses and bottles clinking together, Jeno hooks his guitar into the amplifier and Chenle climbs onto the stage, pulling the microphone down to his height. “This is for him, Mark-hyung,” he says into the microphone, eyes burning into Mark’s, and in his sweet voice he croons about missing someone who was one of a kind, someone who shined, and it takes his breath away, because it’s the most beautiful thing Mark has ever heard in his entire life. In the semi-darkness he sits among his brother’s best friends, and near him are the some of the most important people in his life, Jaemin and Renjun and Donghyuck draped over each in a strange, multi-legged slow dance, Jisung wiggling to get in between them, and over Jaemin’s pink hair Mark meets Donghyuck’s sad smile. Next to him Jaehyun and Doyoung bicker about something trivial, and Yuta is sleepy and drunk and heavy on his shoulder. Mark has never felt so alive in his life. 

When the song ends, the crowd bursts into applause, and Mark takes advantage of the commotion to wipe his eyes discreetly on his sleeve. 

Someone starts another song, this one livelier than the last. Hansol is already dancing with Sooyoung while Jaehyun drags a tipsy, reluctant Jungwoo to the dance floor. Sicheng and Taeil excuse themselves to get more drinks, while Yuta has finally abandoned Mark’s shoulder and lies slumped over the table, fast asleep. This leaves him with the man who introduced himself as Youngho, the only one of Taeyong’s friends who hadn’t shared a story. In fact, Mark realizes with a jolt, he had not spoken a single word all night.

He tips his bottle at Mark, smile easy. “Hey.”

“Hi.” 

“You’re probably wondering why I didn’t say anything about Taeyong, aren’t you?”

Mark shrugs. All his life he has felt cheated, greedy as he was for stories of the man he never got the chance to know. He coveted what few memories he owned, held them close because they were all he had of Taeyong, all he lived off of for the past years, and he’d rather not share. Maybe Youngho felt the same, and Mark did not hold it against him. Maybe they were the same. 

Youngho looks at him, as if he wants to say something. He takes a deep breath, seemingly working up the nerve to say what he wanted to say.

“I loved him, you know,” is what he says, surprising Mark. Youngho’s voice is laced with wistfulness, grief and so much history just waiting to be unraveled. Mark refuses to take the bait. “You and everyone in this room, this whole street, and this entire town.”

“You know what I mean,” Youngho says gently, and Mark decides to throw him a bone when he says, “I know.”

Youngho seems satisfied with that, but something burns in Mark. Youngho must have felt it, because he uncaps two bottles and hands one to Mark, leaning back and getting comfortable.

“I was the last to meet him,” he says so matter of factly, like they were just picking up where an old conversation had left off. “When I got drafted, the rest of them were already there; young and a bit lost, a little scared. I knew right away I wasn’t like them. The future, in war, is uncertain, but mine had already been uncertain even before the North Koreans decided to blow us up for fun. I didn’t have anything back home, you know? No family, no friends, nothing to leave behind and nothing to look forward to. So I didn’t really mind being drafted like most of the boys. But Taeyong, he was also different. The first sergeant receives the new infantrymen, the greenies, and I’ll forever be thankful he was the first sergeant who happened to be waiting for me in the station that day.” He and Mark share a look of understanding. 

“It was like he was offering me a better life, you know? It takes an incredible amount of charm to do that during wartime, in the middle of nowhere, where hope was a rare commodity, but that’s exactly what Taeyong had given me. Hope. It was like he was holding out his hand to me, like one of those army recruiters, like if only I’d take it my life would magically transform or something. And the funny thing is, it did,” he smiles, eyes faraway. “Not in a big or groundbreaking way. Instead, Taeyong gave me a purpose. I spent my whole life just drifting, living from day to day and never really caring about much. I was convinced everything outside of basic survival was pointless and a waste of energy.”

“But seeing the world through Taeyong’s eyes? It’s a powerful thing. It’s unbelievable. It makes you all fired up and passionate. After meeting him, I didn’t just fight for the sake of fighting. I fought to win, to protect him, to protect our friends, to protect the country he loved so unabashedly. I started to think of what I’d do when the war was over, what I wanted my future to look like. And what Taeyong did was practically a miracle, making the most cynical guy around believe in life again.”

Mark listens, enraptured. All he ever associated with the war was that it had taken his brother away from him, but along with all the other stories from his brother’s friends tonight, he’s surprised at the vibrance, the romance, the life there he’d never even suspected existed.

“He proposed to me,” Youngho smiles at the memory. “Our regiment was a two weeks’ march from the military encampment at Kaesong, ten days after his birthday, and tensions were higher than ever because of the armistice negotiations. It was ugly, patrol clashes and small battles erupting out of nowhere, but we passed by a little village in a no man’s land and they made all of us, from both sides, stay for the mayor’s daughter’s wedding. It was like they put war on hold that night.” 

”And everyone is poor in the war time, so they didn’t serve that much for the reception. Just a bit of soup and some beef, but the couple looked so happy, and I remember how big Taeyong’s eyes got as he watched them say their vows, how tight he was holding my hand, and I swear that was the best meal I’ve ever had.”

“That night he crawled into my tent and knelt in front of me in that tiny, cramped space. He said he didn’t want anything else in his life but me. He said he’d make sure I made it out alive and that he’d build a house for us in this beautiful town that he loved so much.” He smiles sadly. 

“He made good with his promise, Mark, he made sure I made it out alive. I made it out alive, but he didn’t, so I had to build my house alone, and I never got see the beautiful town he loved so much, until now, when I’m here to finally bury his body, because he didn’t make it out alive.” Mark wonders how Youngho keeps his voice steady, how he can hold out his hand without a care, showing him the simple gold band sitting on his finger, and he almost stops breathing, because the ring is lovely and elegant in the low muted light of the bar, and the ring represented everything he'd lost.

“This was his ring, you know, and it was nothing short of a miracle that it even fit me.” Mark takes the proffered hand to take a closer inspection and only then does he realize he’s trembling. His whole body is shaking, and he breaks the silence just so he can focus on something else.

“There’s this box sitting on the lid of my mother's grand piano, where she kept the few letters we occasionally got from Taeyong. I think my mom put it there because she knew how I felt about him. And when I was sixteen I finally worked up the courage to open that little box, the first letter I pulled out was the one at the top. The last letter. I know I was a bit too young to understand, but I remember that he spoke about love, all sorts of love, for me and mom, for his country and for his brothers, but he said the last one was special. He wrote about how he finally found someone he wanted by his side for the rest of his life. He was talking about you, Youngho.”

He doesn’t continue, and in the pause his hand shakes even harder, so Youngho takes it between his own and tells Mark more stories. Mark tells him stories too, ones he had never shared with anyone before, not even with Donghyuck – about him coming home in tears because his classmates had asked him he why didn’t have a father and how Taeyong held him close, saying they didn’t need a father, because they had each other and that was enough. He recalls asking why he wanted to hold Donghyuck’s hand all the time, and Taeyong saying that was okay, because you can hold anyone’s hand as long as they let you, and it didn’t matter if you did it because you wanted to or because they were special, and it didn’t matter if they were a boy or a girl as long as you loved them. He tells Youngho about the two of them always laughing together, about chasing after a ball down the block, about sitting on Taeyong’s shoulders and feeling like a king. 

“I was so young, and to me Taeyong felt impossibly old and wise beyond his years, but looking back now I realize he was only a kid, too,” he shakes his head in wonder. “He left when he was eighteen and I was eleven. I’m twenty-one now, the same age he was when died, and it amazes me how kind and how wise he was at that age. He was a special one, wasn’t he? Taeyong was one of a kind.” For the third time that night he stops talking because he can’t say anymore, and Youngho is again quick to the rescue.

So he listens, and little by little he understands the wonders and complexities that made up Lee Taeyong. The more Youngho talks to him the more his heart breaks, and it kills him, because he hears about a version of Taeyong he never got to meet, someone so full of life, who liked dogs and babies and was kind to his neighbors, who adored his mother and worshipped his baby brother, who fell in love and proposed beautifully to Youngho, and Mark thinks of how he was a wonder of a human, how he didn’t deserve to die, he deserved to live, to be in this pub drinking and singing and dancing along with everyone he and Mark ever loved. He doesn’t realise he’s saying all of this out loud until Youngho is pulling Mark into his chest, where he can’t do anything to stop the tears that fall from his eyes because he’s so devastated. _Taeyong should have lived_ , he weeps into Youngho’s shirt, _look at all the people who loved him_ , but the older man only smiles and rubs comforting circles onto Mark’s shaking back. 

“Oh, but he did,” he whispers, “and it was too short, far too short, and we'll never stop missing him, but the point is that he _lived_ , Mark. He lived fully and well, and maybe he deserved to meet the amazing man that you are now, maybe he deserved to meet all your crazy friends, maybe he deserved to get married and to have kids, but he died for his country and he died to save his best friends. And knowing Taeyong, he wouldn’t have had it any other way, you know?” And Mark can only nod, because he knows. “He was always a romantic, that sap,” Youngho chuckles, “it was always about honor and love and doing the noble thing. And it sucks that he died, but I can't think of a more noble death than Taeyong’s. I can almost see the self satisfied grin on his smug face.”

Later, when they've both composed themselves, they sit together at the counter in comfortable silence, watching in amusement as a nauseous Yuta gets escorted by Sicheng past them and into the bathroom. On the stage Donghyuck sings a sad ballad, and when his eyes meet Mark’s across the din of people they stay there, never leaving for a second. The pub is hot and loud but it feels strangely intimate, like it’s just him and Donghyuck and no one else. He almost forgets Youngho is there, until the latter nudges Mark with his elbow. “He’s beautiful.”

It jerks Mark out of his stupor, breaking the moment, and he blinks as he unwillingly turns to Youngho. “Huh?”

The older tilts his glass in the direction of the stage. “That one. He’s beautiful.”

“I know,” he sighs. Because beneath the orange lights, among the broken records and peeling wallpaper, Donghyuck is so achingly beautiful the sight crushes him.

“You and him?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Anyone can see the way you look at each other,” Youngho offers, but he doesn’t explain any further. Donghyuck sings the last few lines of the song and humbly waves off the scattered applause, before he walks purposely towards the door and quietly slips outside. Mark, with a parting nod to Youngho, gets up and quickly follows.

He steps out, closing the door behind him with a soft thud. There’s no one outside, he notes with disappointment. Maybe Donghyuck had gone home. The highway is empty at this time of the night, and he stays out there, basking in the reprieve of the silence. 

He thinks about today, about the past week, the past month. He steps into the narrow sidewalk with a dull, dragging sense of loss, and as he takes a deep breath he feels the separation as he makes a decision to finally leave a part of himself behind. The part of him that never stopped aching since his brother died. The part of him that was so greedy to know Taeyong, that felt bitter and cheated and angry at the unfairness of world for depriving him of something he felt he had a right to. 

Today was supposed to bring the closure he had always wanted, but right now he thinks maybe closure didn't really bring complete relief from the pain, like he always thought it would. All he feels now is a numbing, dulling ease, like anesthesia, making it more bearable. It was still there, the pain of losing Taeyong, and Mark realizes it will never be fully gone, knowing what could have been. But now, in this moment, after tonight, he feels like he understands it more, like maybe he could finally try and live with it. The knowledge that his brother lived, and lived beautifully, gave him the acceptance he needed to heal, and be whole again.

He sees the treetops moving gently in the breeze and he closes his eyes, letting the air run through him. 

In his mind he thinks about the last remaining memories of Taeyong, of sliced lettuce, thin fingers stained a bright orange, the pungent smell from trying to make kimchi. He remembers a dusty road, seen sitting perched on Taeyong’s back, their shadows long on the ground, a hand pointing to the top of the hill where they would be flying their kites. He let’s go of the all the anger and bitterness that accompanies the memories, vows to let them be a source of strength and peace starting today. He draws up his final memory of Taeyong’s face as he stood under the frame of their doorway, duffel bag slung one shoulder, the other raised in one last goodbye, smile wobbly but true, and Mark tries to memorize every plane and line of that beloved face on that very last day.

And that was all. 

He opens his eyes, finally completely dry after the day he’s had, and is surprised to meet Donghyuck’s anxious gaze. 

The other boy is standing beside the narrow length of the streetlight, flooded in orange light, a stark contrast to the deep blue of the moonlit town around them.

"Hey,“ he starts out. His voice is hoarse and he clears his throat. “What are you doing?” Donghyuck doesn’t answer, just watches him. He notes the tiny orange point of a cigarette and the thin line of smoke snaking from between Donghyuck’s fingers.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” he tries again. 

This time Donghyuck turns away from him, looking out over the empty street to the deserted gasoline station across. “I don’t. Some guy inside handed it to me and I decided to try. I don’t really see the appeal.” He stubs out the end against the concrete of the streetlight and tosses the cigarette into an open trash bin nearby.

“Listen, I wanted to say sorry, for last time.”

“You don’t need to explain –”

“No. I know I hurt you –”

“You did.”

“I know I hurt you, but I was hurting, too –”

“You really think you’re the only one who’s been hurting this entire time?” Donghyuck’s voice is soft and quiet against the night, but the sadness in it is clear as day. It splits Mark’s heart right down the middle. “I don't want to invalidate your grief, Mark, god knows you how much you've been through, but I was hurting, too. Did you ever think of that? In case you’ve forgotten, I grew up with you. Taeyong was my friend, too, and I loved him almost as much as you did. What makes it worse is that my happiness is invariably tied to yours, no matter what I do. It's strange and it’s not exactly ideal, but I can’t help it, Mark. I’ve known you my entire life and you have so much of me we’re practically flesh and blood, hell, I practically breathe in time with you, you know? So when you hurt, I hurt. When something fucks you up, it fucks me up, too.”

 _I know,_ Mark wants to say. He understands. Like the tide with the moon, they’ve always been in sync. _Practically flesh and blood_. The truth of it makes goosebumps rise on his arms. 

“My friend died, and after so many years of waiting he’s finally coming home, but he's locked in a box and he’s not breathing. And it kills me. And it's hurting you, and that kills me, too. All of us grieved right with you, but you wouldn’t let us. You wouldn’t let me,” he whispers. “You kept shutting me out. And nothing kills me more than that blankness, Mark Lee. Nothing is worse than being unable to get through to you, than to not know what you were thinking, to not know how to help you. Nothing terrified me more than being unable to see inside you. Because I’m not smart like Jaemin or rich like Chenle or reliable like Jeno. All I was ever good at was being there for you when you needed me, and by some miracle you listened to me—“

“Donghyuck —“

“After a lifetime of knowing everything, it killed me to see you build a wall around yourself because you’ve always let me in, no matter what. It fucking killed me, Mark, being shut out like that, because my whole life I’ve always been of some help up until last month, when everything I said or did felt stupid or inappropriate, and I’ve never felt so useless in my entire life.”

The force of his devastation is palpable, in the tremor in his voice, the fists clenched at his sides, fingernails digging in deep enough to draw blood, and Mark wants nothing more than to make it go away.

“I’m sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel like that. You know I love you, right?” he asks, but Donghyuck’s stare is chilly.

“All I know is that for years I’ve given you all of me and in return you’ve handed me bits and pieces of yourself and called it whatever you think love is.”

Mark reaches out to grasp the other boy’s hand, half amazed that Donghyuck is actually letting him. He uncurls it slowly, finger by finger until it lies open and pliant between his own. He does not let go. Instead he holds fast to Donghyuck’s hand, runs his fingers along the lines, makes a quiet promise to himself.

He thinks about Donghyuck’s capacity for selflessness, how high up Mark is in his list of priorities, and he wants to say how much he’s got it all wrong. 

The moon hangs big and luminous in the sky, illuminating every mistake, every bit of pain he’d ever caused Donghyuck, and he feels like a monster for treating him the way he has. He could see what he saw, and he knew that the other boy was right. If the world was the place it was supposed to be, where fathers didn’t leave and brothers didn’t die and there wasn’t some fundamental part of him that was missing, he would have realized he loved Donghyuck sooner. He wouldn’t have hurt him, and they would have been happy by now. It was clear to him now, how much he loved Donghyuck, had it not been so overshadowed by something stronger – his grief, his pain, blinded with the mourning. 

He thinks, _I never want to be the one to cause him pain ever again_ , he thinks _I cannot bear to lose this precious thing_. But Donghyuck still does not look at him, eyes downcast like he’s counting the cracks in the sidewalk, so Mark tries to put it into words. 

“I promise to let you in,” is the best he was able to come up with. He can only hope Donghyuck will understand. “From this moment on, I’ll try harder, for you. Forgive me, Donghyuck,” he says. 

“I'll be your friend, Mark," the other replies quietly. The look on his face is like a lost little boy’s. "We can just be friends, if that’s what you want. Just _please_ don’t shut me out, because the thought of you going through something like that, all alone, tears me apart. I’ll be your friend, and I won't ask for more than that, if that’s what you need.”

“I think it’s a little too late for that,” Mark replies. He tries to put as much sincerity as he can into his words, because this is important. Donghyuck is important. “Not when you already mean as much as you do to me. I don’t know if I can live with just being your friend when I feel all this for you.”

Silence.

“Do you really want me?” Donghyuck still looks unsure, brows pulled together in skepticism, his eyes full of doubt.

“Want isn’t enough to describe how I feel about you.”

“Just answer the damn question.”

“ _Yes,_ ” he snaps, frustrated. “Yes, I do. So much it fucking scares me.”

Mark waits, breath bated. Donghyuck looks at him, eyes appraising. “Okay,” he says warily, and Mark wants to kneel down in gratitude. “Okay, but if you hurt me I’ll kill you,” he continues, the corner of his mouth quirking up. Donghyuck’s back slumps, tension draining out of him in waves and when he starts to cry, and Mark pulls him into his chest. Suddenly Mark is overwhelmed with gratitude for this miracle in the form of a human being he's holding. For the third time that day he wants to cry, because for all the mess his life has become, Donghyuck will always be a constant. For all the words he cannot say, Donghyuck will always understand, and for all that he lacked, all of his missing parts, Donghyuck will always give him the quiet confidence of being loved fully and completely.

He pulls Donghyuck tighter into the embrace, and they fit together so easily like two parts of a whole. He can’t find the words to even begin to describe the depth of his feelings, so he borrows then from Taeyong. 

“I want you around for the rest of my life,” he says with conviction, and feels more than he hears the younger boy gasp against his chest. He can feel his gut tightening with the weight of his confession, but he forces the words out because it’s what Donghyuck deserves. “You’re kind and selfless and strong and brave, and I’m not deserving of you, but I’ll spend everyday trying to be. I’ll never take you for granted ever again, and a lifetime isn't enough to prove to you how grateful I am for your existence, Lee Donghyuck.”

They stand like that for a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> edited as usual by the amazing [cledritch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cledritch/pseuds/cledritch), my beta and overall favorite human ✨ the song chenle sings is [this](https://youtu.be/EAynvWK8Gqs), and the [lyrics](http://www.tartfroyo.com/autumn-vacation-sometimes-i-want-to-hug-you-like-crazy/) were written for the composer’s brother who passed away, which inspired me throughout the writing process. on the other hand the song donghyuck sings is [this](https://youtu.be/HOi95VWEyRU), which i imagine would sound lovely in his voice :(
> 
> [ ~ cc](https://curiouscat.me/illumarks)!


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